


Silent Night

by kalx58



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (in that there is edging during a hallmark movie), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rey gets what she wants, Rimming, Smut, ass eating to xmas music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28320912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalx58/pseuds/kalx58
Summary: Ben blinks. “Is this—is this because no one should be alone on Christmas Eve?”He means it as a joke. Obviously. The fact that he swallows while he says it and shifts a little in his slippers is just because it’s fucking cold, and he’s standing on her porch in thin flannel pants that are very warm inside his apartment, and very fucking useless outside of it.Her face tilts up towards his, her gaze soft and warm in the glow of the twinkling string lights on her bannister. Tinkling music drifts out from her apartment. “No, Ben. Because your dick looks really good in those pants.”
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 37
Kudos: 175





	Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is the culmination of [my Twitter text fic](https://twitter.com/kalx58/status/1341199723391160320) that I might one day upload here, but it also works as some standalone, vaguely cracky yuletide horniness!

There’s a wreath on Rey’s door. Ben's been face-to-face with it several times today already. This, he expects, will be another one of those quick exchanges: here’s the thing, the very thin excuse I came up with to text you so I could see you and get a temporary rush of Rey-related happiness. But she surprises him, stepping part way out the door, arms crossed over her thin thermal shirt (no bra, and he allows himself the briefest of lingering-looks, a Christmas gift to himself) (it’s either the holiday or her making him this pathetic, he really doesn’t know) as she talks to him.

As she sips the cocktail and lets out impressed noises, he tells her how he’s making a steak. Has been making it all day actually, because he’s sous-viding it and can just finish it—well, whenever. Which is convenient, he says stupidly, as she keeps drinking, eyes bright as she smiles up at him, her lips wet.

“Ben,” she interrupts. “Do you want to come inside?”

It’s obvious, her intent. The slow drift of her gaze down his body, the slight cock of her head, her lip bite—some sort of weird, incomprehensible flash of uncertainty, because she must know that he’d never say no to this, to her—

Ben blinks. “Is this—is this because no one should be alone on Christmas Eve?”

He means it as a joke. Obviously. The fact that he swallows while he says it and shifts a little in his slippers is just because it’s fucking cold, and he’s standing on her porch in thin flannel pants that are very warm inside his apartment, and very fucking useless outside of it.

Her face tilts up towards his, her gaze soft and warm from the glow of the twinkling string lights on her bannister. Tinkling music drifts out from her apartment. “No, Ben. Because your dick looks really good in those pants.”

And then she’s reaching forward, hooking her fingers under the waistband of said useless pants, ignoring his undignified noise and pulling him inside her apartment.

* * *

Ben takes control when they’re inside. Sort of. First, he cranes his neck around curiously, looking at her strung-up lights and the corny movie paused on her screen. Then they’re kissing. Or rather, figuring out the kiss. Because it’s not perfect at first. Too awkward, too eager. Like they’re squaring their original anger and their new tentative friendship with this. Whatever it is. Seasonal horniness? The kind you put away after the holidays like a half-lit balsam candle? Rey hopes not. Because she likes it, she really, really does, his mouth against hers, and the noises he’s making—oh fuck Rey, please—as she’s moving her hands under the waistband of his soft, soft flannel, and he’s not wearing underwear and she jerks him experimentally—

But then he stops her. His fingers hook around her wrist, pulling her hand away. And now he’s the one deciding where to move them, walking her backward, and she hopes he’s realized there's a shelf there. He has, his arm going behind her head, and she tilts her head up to accept the kiss.

Now, of course, she knows that he’s not bloodless and stuffy (knows that he’s funny and clever and kind) but the impatient way he crowds her, the smell and taste of the cocktail’s whiskey, sharp and sweet mixed with his pants is still surprising. He’s so tall, and his erection keeps pushing against her, and she finds she's gasping, her cunt already wet and ready for whatever he wants to put there—his fingers, his mouth, his cock, the one shoving her backwards, into the spines of the Game of Thrones books she’s honestly never going to reread.

“Ben—” she tries. “Please, please—”

They have the same apartment layout, so when he breaks away, grabbing her hands, he knows where to pull her. But in the hallway, he stops. Looks at her. Her back is against the hallway wall before she knows it, and he’s smiling broadly, eyes crinkling, movements impatient: yanking up her sweatshirt and tank top in one go. A grunt of approval when he learns she’s braless. One last tender kiss to her mouth because then he’s bending in half, tongue sliding in a broad circle around her nipples. He makes a muffled snarling noise once he figures out he can fit her entire breast in his mouth.

She’s whimpering his name, pushing her hips up, up, up, only bumping some unsatisfying part of him. He doesn’t stop though, licking and sucking until she’s positive her nipples are likely a seasonally appropriate red, and her posture has collapsed, her spine Jello, hips pushing toward him.

“Ben—please—I need—”

Honestly, she’s not trying to rush things, she’s just worried about the ergonomics of it. Him folded up like that, a crick in his neck, and okay fine, it’s impatience because she wants to fuck him, so she she tries reasoning with him, gasping out anything she can think.

“Come on, Ben, please, please hurry up—”

Well, that was the wrong tactic. Because he just bends to do even more terrible (wonderful) things with his mouth. Only this time he’s moving slowly. In an annoyingly deliberate way. Rey frowns down at him and his smug face, about to snarl. Then something prods at her mouth.

In the spirit of holiday selflessness she opens, accepting two wide fingers into her mouth, marveling at their size, sucking hard and doing it so well, being so good for him that maybe he’ll be just as nice, and put his dick in her. And then she’ll make louder noises for him then that girl all those months ago did, or louder maybe than anyone has. Because right now she could scream as loud as her lungs would allow and it still probably wouldn’t be enough to capture her want.

He drags his fingers out, her see-what-I-can-do suction slowing their release, and moves them again. She’d hauled her to her room. Sweatpants yanked down, thick socks still on.

Of course she yells. She just didn’t think it’d be this soon. The first touch of his tongue, lips over her clit, sucking hard. The feel of his stubble on the lips of her cunt. Her voice zooms up a few octaves when she feels a finger stroking impatiently at her entrance, and speaking of octaves, her Christmas music is still playing and yes, Mariah Carey, all she wants for Christmas is this, right now, in front of her. Again and again. He’s loud, too—thought about this, thought about you, Rey, wanted this, thought about how you’d taste—and she shoves against him and all the perfect things he’s saying, and then she’s coming, her head and chest rising, legs jerking.

Her legs are still twitching, her heart still hammering and she can’t make herself move. Has to tell her brain, over and over again: first you need to move your arm. Then you need to use your fingers to open the drawer. Then you grab the condom, and hand it to Ben. Ben, who's currently pulling off his clothes, revealing even more width than she thought, even more muscle than she thought, and a dick exactly as big as she’d thought.

And when she’d thought about this before (a sliver of want growing since that first night) she’d pictured her on top, holding him down as he tried to sit up and tell her to turn her music down. And she’d smirk and do something that would make his eyes go wide. But this: him on top of her, smiling sweetly at her as he gently pushes in is different. It makes her melt. The romance, the eye contact. The same soft part of her that loves Christmas and schmaltz. Tender dark eyes, everything soft: kisses, grunts, the feel of his hair slipping through her fingers.

But the other part of Christmas is the drama, right? Everything’s little too much, excessive and spangled and decadent. And accordingly, here and now on her sheets: deeper thrusts that draw out quavery, unfamiliar sounds from her. Eyes widening at how deep he gets. Hands no longer lazily caressing but clinging. Sweat dripping from him to her. Both of them messy and shoving, moving faster and faster. And she’s saying fuck, fuck and he’s saying her name, and Mariah Carey, who’s apparently on repeat, is saying you-ou-ou. Then heat of a different kind, a warm body collapsing on top of her, caressing her, a kiss being pressed to her hair.

* * *

“So gross. I need to shower.” Rey flings her arms, trying to avoid his soft parts, indicating: a day of manual labor, trying to avoid loneliness, bringing me to this.

“You’re not gross.” He shouldn’t sound offended, she thinks, but even in her head it’s fond.

“I am—hey, ew! Ben!” He’s kissing the sweaty valley between her breasts, basically licking, motions wide and messy.

“Actually, sure. Let’s shower.” He sits up, running a hand through sweaty hair, smiling at her innocently. She squints, suspicious.

After examining her store brand shower gel, Ben squirts some into his big palm and lathers, soaping her boobs. She does the same to him, standing up straight to stare at his chest as she moves her soapy hands in chaotic paths, marveling at his width. He smiles, hair plastered around his face, ears and nose sticking out, and bends to suck her nipples. Her cunt throbs. They’re going to fuck in the shower, she thinks, but instead, he rinses her and turns off the water.

When they’re out, he wanders out naked to her living room. She calls out for him to pick out some Christmas music. Vince Guaraldi’s Christmas album floats out from her speakers when he finds her in her room, digging in her dresser for clean underwear.

“No. Not yet,” he says, plucking them from her grasp and putting them back in her drawer.

“No?” His dick bumps her hip. He squeezes her ass, and she likes the feel of his fingers pressing into her flesh. Then she feels his big hands on her hips, turning her and directing her to the bed. He climbs onto the bed behind her, urging her down on her belly. Without prompting, she sticks her ass toward him, expecting his cock from a new angle, deeper and more intense—

Instead she gets the warmth of his mouth. And then, too soon, the feeling is gone. Now he’s licking higher, closer to her ass. She yelps.

“Should I stop?” he asks innocently.

“Ah. No.”

His tongue returns, licking flat and wide and lazy across her hole. Her hands move to her comforter, clutching it to the point that her knuckles turn white. It turns out that she likes this. A lot, she thinks, making a helpless noise as he seems to get closer, nose and facial hair rubbing against her cheeks.

“Fuck. You like this, Rey?” he rasps.

“Yes, yes—please, Ben.” She squirms, wanting pressure on her clit, but also very much wanting the return of his mouth. She presses ass back toward face hopefully

“You should touch yourself.”

And then his tongue is swiping and prodding at her hole again, the sentimental Christmas piano jazz a familiar soundtrack. Usually it makes her feel warm and soothed. But not now, when she’s scorching and overwhelmed and at his mercy like this. The amount of pleasure she’s getting from this seems absurd, but she’s making increasingly helpless noises, burying her head in her elbow while firm hands hold her wider.

She looks up once, seeing their reflection in the dark window: him hunched over her, face buried in her ass, soft lamplight illuminating the glint of his hair. His noises, his hunger for this, for all of her, makes her wetter and when she jams her fingers against her clit, she’s yelling again.

After, she wants to give all of herself to him, feeling like a cartoon character with birds fluttering around her head. Reaching her hands back to grope at him, she begs him to come on her, wherever he wants and she watches, neck craned, as his hand moves faster, his face slackening as she feels him coming across her ass.

* * *

They share the steak. It’s perfect. Rey falls asleep in Ben’s bed. In the morning, it’s raining, so hard that the gutters seem to gurgle. She feels a particular kind of Christmas energy when she stirs, waking up on a day she already knows has excitement and goodness in store.

* * *

Brisk. Does Rey like Brisk? What about White Claw? Is that something she likes, or is he more of a beer drinker? Maybe he could make her another cocktail. She’d liked (really liked) the eggnog he’d made. Had asked curious questions about the safety of raw egg and if the booze kills the bacteria while sucking his dick earlier, sloppy and enthusiastic and wide-eyed as he’d choked out answers about handed-down Solo family recipes, trying not to get distracted by the spit trailing down her chin.

Condoms. He came to the corner store for condoms. They’d run out earlier this morning. He’d discovered that she didn’t require coffee quite as immediately as he did, when he’d almost rejected her this morning because he was so tired. Luckily, she’d saved him from his stupidity, smiling and climbing on top and telling him she’d do all the work. And then she’d bounced on his dick, so energetic she’d almost seemed angry, and he’d remembered the spiky energy of their earlier encounters as she’d pulled (yanked) his hair.

His eyes stray around the shelves, and he makes eye contact with the stern woman on the jar of chili crisp, flashing through plans for their day. She’d announced/demanded that she wanted Chinese that day. Which, of course, raises all sorts of questions: which Chinese place did she want? Spicy Sichuan? The rice noodle place? Or—he does know that she likes red sauce—that place with the Hong Kong pork chop spaghetti?

There had been so much empty space around what she’d said—no plans, her friend with his family—that he sensed that there was something. Something that maybe he’d learn about, that she’d trust him with. But for now—he just wants to make this day good for her.

Ben wanders through the corner store grinning at stupid shit—tub of frosting, nag champa, candles (when’s her birthday?)—trying not to think of her at home. Wearing his pajamas, the sleeves and legs baggy and cradling her, making her look soft and fuckable, in a very cozy kind of way. God, she’d been so loud.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’ve never done this.”

“Never—ah—had the chance.” Now really doesn’t seem like the right time for the whole depressing parental abandonment storytime. Especially when he’s doing that with his fingers. Fuck. Now he’s moving them, satisfied at her wetness.

“This was a tradition,” Ben informs her, settling behind her. “My uncles—well, the cool ones, who weren’t actually my uncles—would give me these every year.”

“Very cute,” she breathes, trying to angle her hips so his dick brushes her clit again. She’s face down on his couch—she’s sensing a theme here, Ben Solo’s predilections for ass-proximity—with him behind her. He’d walked in from liquor store, stared at her sitting on his couch, enjoying the novelty of not being in her own apartment, half-watching another dumb Christmas movie. His eyes had darkened, staring too long at the sight of her in his clothes, and he’d pushed down her pants (his pants: soft and expensive-feeling.) And now he’s pushing something, two things, in front of her.

His cock drags along her slick folds, just teasing. She dutifully scrapes the penny across the ticket, propped atop one of his big, boring-looking books, and there’s a satisfying tension in the scrape of the penny across the scratcher.

“Did you win anything, Rey?” His breath tickles her ear, and she feels his balls slap gently against her. She turns her head, watching but not really focused on the movie’s climatic scene, an aggressively wholesome snowball fight.

“Um.” She keeps moving her hand in a slashing rote pattern, rucking up dust, the tip of his cock slipping slipping and bumping her clit. Her gasp is louder than the movie’s current dialogue, a plot moppet’s overly-invested monologue about their parent’s dating life. He stays there, and does it again.

She whines, but he doesn’t penetrate her. Not until she’s fully scratched off the various bubbles, turning and excitedly showing him how she’s won ten whole dollars. Then the scratcher flutters from her hand because he’s pressing in, a thick stretch as she looks, unfocused, at the TV screen, where a woman who had the nerve to dislike Christmas while having brown hair is learning her lesson.

He also notices. “Can you tell me the real meaning of Christmas?”

She can’t move much—he’d been too impatient to take the pants all the way off, her ankles trapped, thick socks of his still on her feet—so she lets him set the pace, groaning and frowning at him when he’s moving too slowly. “Um. Giving up your career to run a holiday-themed B&B with Santa’s hot son?”

“No.” His thrusts speed up and he’s pinching a nipple. “Be serious, Rey.”

She giggles. Then cries out when he moves his hand. “Sorry, Rey. Can’t come until you tell me the meaning of Christmas.”

The movie’s leads are tilting their faces toward each other against a snowy, tree-filled backdrop, and she really wants to come.

“Togetherness, you asshole, fuck, please—”

She sighs as he starts rubbing her clit again, the orgasm already rippling through her. As the on-screen couple meets in a short, closed mouth kiss, she pants out that he can spank her if he wants. And it turns out he does, but he only manages two firm slaps before he’s sucking in breaths and swearing. Then she’s twitching and groaning and so is he, hips pressing against hers, her name drawn out in low tones against her ear.

When he comes back from the bathroom, his face splits into a yawn. Then she’s yawning, maybe from the heat (he uses the heater like it’s free) and he leans against her. Then it turns into a slump, his body relaxing against her. The YouTube yule log she put on crackles. Rey tugs them both down to lay on the couch. And it’s a tight fit, but he arranges her next to him, his arm slung around her, and she has complete trust that he won’t let her slide off the couch. As she falls into sleep she hears his heartbeat next to her ear, steady and loud.

**Author's Note:**

> [Ben's favorite Christmas song](https://youtu.be/s0NoalRsk5w)


End file.
